


If I Could Take The Fire Out From The Wire

by trashcangimmick



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - College/University, Android Existential Dread, Desk Sex, Drunk Connor, Fluff, Heavy Shit My Dudes, I Just Want These Good Boys To Be Happy, M/M, Professor Hank, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Teacher-Student Relationship, What Does It Mean To Be Alive Who Knows Not ME, i’m a mess, kind of, this is a mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-01 14:44:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15145412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashcangimmick/pseuds/trashcangimmick
Summary: Hank is a forensic psychology professor. Connor is his brand new, overly-helpful android TA. Shit gets complicated pretty quick.





	1. Heartilation

**Author's Note:**

> Rating for future chapters. I made the post so I had to delivar. Strap in kiddos. This gonna be A Ride. (The author reserves the right to add the Daddy Kink tag in subsequent updates because he is trash with no-self control).

“You’ve gotta be shitting me,” is the only thing Hank can think to say to that friendly pile of plastic sitting across the desk from him.

 

It’s nine thirty in the goddamned morning. Hank hasn’t even had coffee yet. He’s gotta teach a class in half an hour. He’s nursing a killer hangover. He hates the start of fall semester with a burning passion, and this year is no exception. So of course. Of course those bastards in administration, who’ve been regretting giving him tenure ever since he got divorced and developed a drinking problem, decided to fuck with his life and assign him a goddamned android grad student as a TA.

 

Sure, the University of Michigan Detroit is a _progressive_ place. Since the revolution, plenty of androids have enrolled. Their money is as good as anyone else’s. Most of them can absorb information at frightening speeds, but they want to take classes like _fine art_ , _sociology,_ and _creative writing_. They want to learn more about their newfound thoughts and feelings.

 

Why exactly this one is majoring in forensic psychology is anyone’s guess. Hank doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t want to know a fucking thing about this ‘Connor’ character, who has apparently been waiting patiently in his office since eight.

 

“I am afraid I don’t understand your meaning, Professor Anderson.” The kid smiles, like nothing is wrong with the situation. “I’m quite confident that we are both in the correct place. I have been assigned to help you for the duration of the semester.”

 

“OK. First off, it’s Hank. Second, there has definitely been a mistake. I never have TAs. I don’t need a TA. And nothing personal, kid, but I don’t want your help. I’ve been doing this shit by myself for twenty years just fine.”

 

Connor just sits there. Still smiling. The little LED on the side of his head flickers to yellow and spins for a moment. Processing. It’s kinda weird that he still has that thing in, right? Most Androids pried their LEDs out the second they went deviant. At least, that’s what Hank thought. He doesn’t know many robots on a personal level. But, then again, he also doesn’t know very many people on a personal level. He comes to work, he has office hours, he leaves, he drinks, he sleeps. He’s never found a lot of use for company outside his dog. He’s a prickly old man that’s perfectly fine with dying alone. He doesn’t want to deal with any changes to the routine or status quo.

 

“Perhaps you are worried that I have been sent to monitor your conduct? I would like to assure you, that is not the case.”

 

“Well, I wasn’t worried about that ten seconds ago…” Hank groans. Of course. Fowler is probably looking for an excuse to get rid of him. Catch him drinking on the job or some shit. Why not send in a pretty little twink that fucking records everything that happens with his damned robot eyeballs?

 

“Professor Anderson–”

 

_“Hank.”_

 

“My apologies. Hank. I am simply here to make your job easier and, in turn, I hope to learn from you. I greatly admire your work. You are one of the most prolific living researchers in the field. I have read every paper you’ve co-authored. I requested to be assigned to you, sir.”

 

It’s Hank’s turn to sit there and fucking process.

 

Sure, he’s had his share of sweet young things get enamoured with him. He’s a professor, constantly surrounded by horny mini-adults experiencing their first taste of freedom. Back in the day, he wasn’t bad to look at. Shit happens. Kids with daddy issues like to suck up to a replacement authority figure. Hank usually managed to keep it all above board. Didn’t mess around with any students while they were his students.

 

But he thought all that shit was pretty much behind him. He’ll occasionally get one or two teacher’s pet types a semester that like to hang around during office hours. But he’s not exactly some sort of stud anymore. He’s old, and grumpy, and dresses like a slob.

 

“Huh.” Hank snorts. “So you’re like, a weirdo Hank Anderson fanboy. Is that about right?”

 

“I–I didn’t mean to imply–” The little LED shifts to red for a second before it goes back to yellow.

 

It’s bizzare to see a machine get flustered. There’s even a blue tinge rising on the kid’s neck. This might not be so bad after all. In fact, it might be really fucking entertaining.

 

“I’m messing with you.” Hank takes pity on the poor guy and offers a half-smile.

 

“Oh.” Connor visibly relaxes. “I understand.”

 

“Sure you do.” Hank glances at the clock. Fuck. He really needs to get ready to teach. What class does he even have at ten… is it Intro or 200 level…?

 

He starts shuffling papers on his desk. More than anything, he needs Connor and his distracting face to be not directly in front of him. All androids are pretty. Inhumanly perfect, like ethereal alien runway models. This one, though, there’s something different. He’d got more of that ‘boy-next-door’ vibe. Freckles. Dimples. Soft curly brown hair and big doe eyes. Is approachable the right word? Maybe not, but it’s the best Hank can come up with.

 

“Well, Connor. This has been fun. But I should probably head out to do my damn job. I guess… I don’t know. I’ll let you know when I need help grading anything.”

 

“Excellent.” Connor perks up, almost reminiscent of an excited dog. “May I accompany you to the lecture? I don’t have any classes on Mondays. I thought perhaps I could take notes and post them on the student portal as an informal study guide.”

 

“Uh… sure. Why not?” Hank sighs.

 

It’s going to be a long goddamned semester.

 

***

 

Hank has to wonder if it’s reasonable to get frustrated with someone for being too helpful.

 

Connor is in his office every morning, before he even gets there, compiling notes, typing up lesson plans from Hank’s scribbled outlines, updating the fucking student portal that Hank has never touched in all his years teaching. By the end of the first week, Connor has uploaded slide presentations, notes, and assignment rubrics for every single one of Hank’s courses, all neat and tidy and available for students to access. He even made forums where students can post questions, and has been _answering them._

 

“When the fuck did you find time to do all this?” Hank finds himself groaning into his coffee mug.

 

“I am taking a lighter course load so that I have adequate time to assist you. I also don’t require sleep.” Connor is so goddamned chipper. Sitting in the corner of Hank’s office, in the cushy armchair he’s claimed as his own workspace, typing away happily on a university-issued laptop.

 

Hank tries not to think about how comfortable Connor looks. How he’s just slotted himself seamlessly into Hank’s space. It hasn't even been that long. He has no right to look like he belongs there.

 

“You mean you’ve been staying up all night working?” Hank shakes himself, trying to refocus on the conversation.

 

“Yes.”

 

“For god’s sake, _why?”_

 

Connor’s LED spins yellow. He frowns slightly. “Have I done something to upset you, Hank?”

 

“No. I just mean, don’t you have anything better to do than answer idiotic questions from the dullards?”

 

“No.”

 

“Christ. You need to get a social life or something, kid.”

 

Silence. More yellow spinning. “Is a social life required to be a successful forensic psychologist?”

 

“I mean… psychology is basically the science of trying to understand people.” Hank shrugs.

 

“You do not seem to have a lot of deep intrapersonal relationships.” More yellow spinning. “For example, you are not married, and live alone except for a St. Bernard.”

 

“What the fuck? Who told you that?”

 

“No one.” The LED flicks back to blue. “Forgive me, Hank. I was built to be a police officer. I can’t help analysing evidence.”

 

Yikes. Hank slumps back in his chair, wondering what else Connor has managed to suss out about him. This is probably his fault for not asking what Connor used to do. Maybe there’s a part of him that didn’t want to ask because he was afraid the kid had been an escort or something. Not that there’s anything wrong with being an escort. But it was all a little grimey, what with androids being forced into it and all.

 

“Yeah, well. You know what they say about meeting your heroes.”

 

“I do. However, you have not been a disappointment thus far.” Connor wets his lips. It’s such a human gesture, Hank almost misses the implication. Androids don’t need to do that. Right? Is he imagining things?

 

Connor goes back to working. Hank decides it’s better to just let him be.

 

***

 

“So, Hanky. I heard you got a new sex bot.”

 

“Careful, Reed. If HR hears you talking like that, you’ll have to go through another android sensitivity training.” Hank pointedly does not look up from his laptop. This is why he never hangs out in the staff lounge. Unfortunately, his office is no longer safe. Because Connor always seems to be in there. Hovering. Asking if he can help. If there’s nothing to do, he tries to engage in abstract discussion on human behavioral instincts, or even worse, asks invasive questions about Hank’s personal life. Hank doesn’t have the heart to tell him to fuck off. He tried once and the kid looked so dejected, Hank actually felt _guilty._

 

Gavin flops down in the armchair next to him. Hank doesn’t need to glance over to know there’s a shit-eating grin on his face.

 

“Kid’s pretty cute. You take him for a spin yet?”

 

“If I did, I sure as hell wouldn’t be telling you about it.”

 

“Aw, come on. I won’t rat you out.”

 

Hank closes his laptop. He wasn’t doing anything all that important anyway. Just typing up some thoughts on what exactly might motivate an android to keep acting like such an android when they’re also trying to integrate with human society. Connor is strange. Probably a subject worth in-depth psychological study. Not that Hank will be the one to do it. But still.

 

Gavin is the sort of sicko that Hank always tried not to be. Flagrant affairs with barely legal students. Usually several at a time. He’ll stumble into Hank’s favorite bar near campus, a girl on each arm, and order rounds of shots like he’s still twenty instead of thirty-six. Sometimes he has the audacity to come up to whatever booth Hank’s claimed for the night and try to get him to ‘join the party’. Hank always declines, because the girls looks nervous at the idea, and he doesn’t want to know what Gavin Reed looks like naked. Also, y’know, the principle of the thing.

 

He and Gavin have developed an odd camaraderie over it, though. In that Hank never mentions the shit he sees Gavin stirring up to somebody who’d be inclined to do something about it, and Gavin doesn’t mention the fact that he occasionally sees Hank with his arm around some fresh-faced boy with soft hair and innocent eyes. Being a queer isn’t something that’d get you fired these days. But Hank is old enough to remember a time when it was. It’s also not a great look–screwing guys who are young enough to be your son. They aren’t his _students_ at the very least. They’re random townies he finds on Grindr or whatever. He treats them nice. Buys them drinks or dinner, takes them home, fucks them tender, and doesn’t call them again. They don’t call him either. That’s not the sort of thing it is.

 

“You know, my cousin has banged a couple of robot chicks.” Gavin cocks an eyebrow. “He says it’s pretty nice. They’re always wet. No matter what hole you wanna stick it in.”

 

“I’ve said you’re disgusting before, right?”

 

“I’m just throwing it out there.” Gavin shrugs. “I bet that TA of yours has a tight little ass, and I bet you don’t have to do much to get him ready.”

 

“Does it qualify as sexual harassment if you’re talking to me about other people?” Hank slips his laptop into the old _Zeal and Ardor_ messenger bag that acts as his briefcase.

 

“Nahhhh… I’ll see you at The Sink tonight?”

 

“Maybe. I got a lot of shit to grade.”

 

“Make Mr. Robot do it.”

 

“He’s got a test tomorrow. Kid should be studying. I can do my own job, thanks.” Hank gets up, slinging the bag over his shoulder.

 

Gavin is smiling at him oh so irritatingly. Like he knows something Hank doesn’t. The urge to smack that stupid grin off his face is very present. But Hank resists. Instead, he just walks away.

 

***

 

Grading papers and drinking don’t have to be mutually exclusive activities. So the evening does find Hank at The Sink, sitting in his favorite corner booth, sipping a glass of Black Lamb on the rocks, and getting wild with a red pen.

 

It’s a Wednesday night, so the bar isn’t too crowded. Gavin, thankfully, hasn’t shown his face yet. It’s mostly other faculty and some grad students, sipping martinis and griping about deadlines. Hank is far from the only professor who likes their drinks. The Sink is kind of known for being the classier place near campus, where the older crowd can hang out and not get bombarded by drunk freshmen. It’s expensive enough to keep most undergrads out, but not so expensive that it’s a strain on Hank’s salary. He’s been coming to the The Sink for over a decade. At this point, it feels about as homey as his own living room.

 

He feels the small burst of cool air as the door swings open. He’s too deep in an essay on the heredity of mental illness to look up, even when he feels someone standing over him.

 

“Good evening, Hank.”

 

That’s enough to startle him. He might even jolt a little as _Connor_ slides into the booth, right across the table from him.

 

“You should have alerted me that there were essays that still needed grading. I finished the ones on your desk, but it did seem like a small pile.”

 

“Did you follow me here or something?” Hank tries for accusatory, but he’s still so off balance. It probably comes off more confused than anything.

 

“No. Professor Reed dropped by your office looking for you. He informed me that this was the most likely place you’d be on a weeknight.”

 

“Of course he did.” Hank reaches for his whiskey and downs what’s left of it. He’s going to need another drink. Several more drinks.

 

“May I assist you?” Connor is already reaching for the stack of papers without marks on them.

 

“Don’t you have a big exam tomorrow or something?”

 

“Yes. I have adequately prepared myself.”

 

Hank tries really hard not to save that little tidbit and file it away for later, out of context, use. But he is only human. And that damn robot sitting not two feet away from him is a walking wet dream. Already scribbling away on an essay. Stopping to _chew on the tip of his pen_ while he thinks.

 

Instead of saying, ‘fuck you, Connor, get out of here,’ he finds himself asking, “Can androids drink? Do you want a drink?” He’s seen Connor chug coffee. But that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.

 

“I possess the necessary biocomponents to imbibe alcohol. Admittedly, I have not used them. They were part of a general update to allow consumption of liquids.” Connor doesn’t even look up. Already lost in his task.

 

Hank decides to take that response as a ‘yes, please buy me a drink’ and hauls himself back over to the bar. He figures straight whiskey is probably not the best place to start a virgin, so he orders a Lemon Drop along with his refill. Connor doesn’t notice right away when Hank sets the martini glass down in front of him.

 

He seems surprised when he actually looks up.

 

“Try it.” Hank raises his own glass and sips. He’s burned off enough taste buds at this point that whiskey goes down smooth as water.

 

Connor grasps the stem of the glass and raises the edge to his lips with a marked skepticism. He tastes it and wrinkles his nose.

 

“An entire serving of this concoction would contain 65% of the recommended daily sugar intake for humans.”

 

“Good thing you aren’t human.” Hank snorts.

 

“I suppose it is customary to thank you for purchasing me a beverage?”

 

“You’re welcome. Now, get back to work.”

 

***

 

It’s a bad idea to buy Connor another drink. It’s a worse idea to let him have a third. Hank isn’t a bad person, but he’s not a great one either. The entertainment value of a robot’s first brush with intoxication is too good to pass up. And hell. The company isn’t the worst thing either.

 

The night ends with Hank having to help Connor walk out of the bar. He manages to get them both into a taxi, despite the fact that Connor is wobbling all over the place like a newborn giraffe.

 

“What’s your address?” Hank nudges Connor in the ribs. Connor is slumped against him. Resting his cheek against Hank’s shoulder.

 

“1745 West Maple.”

 

Hank punches the address in on the keypad and swipes his credit card. The car starts moving. Normally, Hank doesn’t like autonomous vehicles. But under the circumstances, he’ll take what he can get.

 

It’s started to rain. Water patters against the glass windows with a soothing regularity. The sky is hazy grey. It’s not even that late yet. Maybe ten thirty. There aren’t many other cars on the road, probably due to the weather and the fact that it’s a weeknight.

 

Connor seems ready to fall asleep. Relaxed and lazy. Warm. He’s so warm. Hank isn’t sure what he expected. Maybe part of him thought that an android would be cold, or room temperature. Like any other piece of plastic. Connor isn’t just a piece of plastic, though. He’s breathing steadily. There’s blue blood pumping through his veins. He’s delicate, and beautiful, and _alive._

 

It’s not a long ride. The taxi stops in front of a nondescript building, not too far from campus. Hank gets out, still supporting Connor with an arm around his shoulder. Connor manages to dig a key fob out of his pocket and swipes it to get them in the front door. Then again in the elevator. Hank isn’t exactly sure at what point he should make his exit. But he figures he should at least make sure Connor gets inside his apartment. The kid is still stumbling. Taking shaky, weaving steps.

 

“I don’t understand why my equilibrium is so affected.” Connor still sounds completely sober, which makes the whole thing more ridiculous.

 

“Booze will fuck with all sorts of things.”

 

“It’s interfering with my self-diagnostics. I keep getting… error messages.” He waves his hand, like he’s trying to close out some annoying pop-up windows that Hank can’t see.

 

The elevator stops on the eleventh floor. Connor points left. They walk almost to the end of the hall, to apartment 1145. Connor leans against the wall as he tries to get the key in the lock. Hank lets him fail three times before getting bored, grabbing the key and opening the door himself.

 

“Thank you,” Connor mumbles. Cheeks tingeing blue.

 

“Get some rest, OK?” Hank claps him on the shoulder. “I don’t know if robots get hangovers, but I might drink some water and take an aspirin if I were you.”

 

Connor just stares at him. Still leaning against the wall. He slowly raises his hand to place it over Hank’s. Not quite holding it down. Gently touching it, where Hank is touching him. It’s a strange, intimate gesture. Part of Hank wants to jerk away. Part of him wants to know what happens if he doesn’t.

 

“Would you like to come in for coffee?” Connor’s tonge peeks out, tracing along his lower lip. “I do have a coffee machine. I–um–I enjoy the flavor.”

 

“I’d better not, kid. We both need to be up early.”

 

“Oh.” Connor swallows. “Right. Well, goodnight.”

 

Connor slides through the door and palms it shut behind him before the corresponding, _‘Goodnight, Connor’_ is halfway out of Hank’s mouth.

 

Shit.

 

***

 

The next morning, Connor is in Hank’s office before he gets there–as always. But he’s disheveled. Hair more curly than normal, like he didn’t bother to put product in it. Most of the time he wears button-down shirts and slacks. Today he’s in an oversized ‘Detroit Police Academy’ sweater and jeans. He’s even slumped down in the armchair, curled over the laptop, instead of maintaining his usual perfect posture.

 

“How you feeling there, champ?” Hank can’t help laughing.

 

“Nausea is a new sensation. I do not wish to experience it again.”

 

“Yeah. Welcome to the club. Do you… do you eat? I could go grab you a donut or something. Carbs and fat usually help.”

 

“No, thank you. Professor Anderson.”

 

Welp.

 

Hank fucked up. Or rather, he fucked up in the short term. Long term, it’s better this way. No matter how much he wanted to lean forward and press a sloppy kiss against Connor’s stupid, pouty lips, it would have been a bad scene. Kid drunk off his ass, obviously confused and desperate for some sort of attention. Hank would have just been a dirty old man taking advantage.

 

“I’m not sure if painkillers work for you or not, but I’ve got Excedrin in my drawer if you need it.” Hank flops down at his desk and acts busy. Connor doesn’t respond. He stays silent in that chair, typing away at whatever he’s doing, until Hank has to leave for a lecture.


	2. People II: The Reckoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **WARNING:** Connor has some transcripts from interviews with deviant androids. So discussion of abuse, attempted suicide, violence, forced sex work, and implied rape/non-con. Nothing you wouldn’t see in the game already, but still. Triggery shiit.

“Did you like the present I sent you the other night?” Gavin, unwelcome as always, plops down at Hank’s table. The bastard is everywhere. Even the coffee shop attached to the library that they both happen to frequent on a regular basis.

 

“You mean sending my TA to annoy me while I was trying to drink and grade papers in peace?”

 

“I know you’re not actually that much of a stick in the mud. I’m sure you were thrilled. Besides. Chris said he saw the two of you stumbling out together.”

 

“The kid was shitfaced. I had to make sure he got home alive.” Hank snorts. The coffee shop is crowded. Noisy. He shouldn’t be worried about people listening in, but also he’s maybe a little paranoid. 

 

“Tooootally. So… how was it?”

 

“Since when did you turn into a goddamn fishwife? Your sudden fascination with my sex life is creepy, Reed.”

 

“C’mon. Office romances are always juicy. I’m fucking bored, man. You and Mr. Robot’s triply taboo clandestine affair would be the most interesting thing to happen on this godforsaken campus in years.”

 

“Triply taboo?”

 

“Gay, android, your subordinate. That’s some romance novel shit.”

 

“Don’t fetishize my sexuality. Which happens to be  _ bisexual _ , not strictly gay.”

 

“Could you be more of a shitty millennial?”

 

“Better than being Gen-Z garbage.”

 

“Fuck you.”

 

“Fuck yourself.”

 

“You’re buying the drinks tonight.”

 

“Fight me.”

 

***

 

Hank does buy the drinks. Way too many of them. Gavin keeps ordering round after round, and Hank’s feeling bad enough to go along for the ride. It’s a Friday, so he’s a little confused about why Gavin isn’t off cruising for pussy or whatever. But he’s not gonna question it too hard. Drinking with someone else is more socially acceptable then blacking out in your own living room and pushing your suicidal tendencies to see how far they’ll go. It’s a dangerous game any time Hank gets his pistol out and debates just wrapping his lips around the barrel and pulling the trigger. He probably won’t do it. But he’s not  _ sure _ he won’t either. After all, what the fuck’s he got to live for? Sumo ain’t gonna be around forever, and after that, he has literally nothing.

 

He’s not thinking clearly when Gavin suggests they head back to his place to ‘keep the party going’. Hank should go home. He knows that. But the thought of being alone is somehow more depressing than the thought of continuing to drink with Gavin Reed. So he gets in the taxi without a fuss.

 

Gavin has a nice enough place. Little house in a quiet suburb just outside the city proper. One of those neighborhoods that used to be a shithole, but got all gentrified and shiny after the android boom. Hank remembers when Detroit was an apocalyptic wasteland. It’s not the sort of thing anyone else wants to talk about. So he usually keeps his reminiscing to himself.

 

He follows Gavin inside. Accepts the glass of whiskey that’s pressed into his hands. Sinks down onto the comfortable couch and zones out when Gavin puts the game on. He doesn’t notice how close Gavin is sitting. Doesn’t care that their thighs are touching. 

 

Hank only really tunes into the program when Gavin swings a leg over him and is sitting in his lap.

 

“Oh.” Hank snorts.

 

“Yeah?” Gavin hovers, leaves a few inches of space between them. Enough of a buffer to let either of them to get cold feet. 

 

“I guess this explains why you’ve been so damn nosy.” Hank rests his hands on Gavin’s hips. Not quite sure if he wants to push forward yet.

 

“If we do this, we’re never talking about it, and it’s probably not gonna happen again.” Gavin leans in so their mouths are almost touching. 

 

“Wouldn’t expect any less from a gentleman such as yourself.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

Hank tries close that last bit of distance, but Gavin pulls back a little. 

 

“No kissing.” He murmurs. 

 

Hank remembers high school, awkward handjobs in the backs of pickup trucks, under the bleachers, anywhere dirty and out of the way. No kissing. No talking about it. After it happens, we pretend it didn’t. The thrill of lust and teenage hormones almost masked the pain of it. The rejection. Heartbreak. 

 

He’s too old for that shit. 

 

“Reed. No offense, but I don’t want to be an outlet for your sexual midlife crisis. If you’re looking to experiment, download a hookup app.”

 

“I’m not a virgin or something.” He’s on the defense now. Sits back a little more, but doesn’t move off Hank’s lap. “C’mon, man. Don’t make this weird.”

 

“It’s already weird, Reed. I should… I should just go.”

 

“OK. Whatever.” Gavin slumps back onto the couch. Looking every bit the part of a pouty little kid that got his hand slapped out of the cookie jar. 

 

Hank calls himself a Lyft and is out of there in a hurry. Hoping work won’t be too awkward the next time they run across each other, but knowing in his heart that it will be. 

 

***

 

On Monday, Connor is sitting in the chair opposite Hank’s instead of the usual corner armchair. It’s an ambush of some kind, that much is obvious. But Hank walks right into it. He sits at his desk and starts unpacking his stuff. 

 

“Good morning, Hank.”

 

Well that’s a positive sign at least. “Morning, Connor.”

 

“Did you have a pleasant weekend?”

 

“Not the exact word I’d use. But y’know. Did you do anything besides work?”

 

“In a manner of speaking.” Connor drums his fingers on the edge of the desk, drawing Hank’s attention down to a manila folder that doesn’t belong to him. It’s too crisp and doesn’t have any random scribbling on it. 

 

“Whatcha got there?”

 

“During my time with the Detroit Police force, I had the chance to interview many deviant androids. I am uncertain if this contributed to my own eventual… deviancy.” He says the word like it pains him. Like he’s still not used to it. Might explain the remaining presence of his LED. “However, I believe these interviews might yield some interesting findings about the evolution of free will in my species.”

 

“Shit. I bet they would.”

 

“I was wondering if perhaps you might be able to help me analyze the transcripts. Having an outside perspective may prove helpful, as I was the interviewer.”

 

“Sure,” Hank says without even thinking about. He’s already reaching for the folder. 

 

Connor slides it over to him. Hank flips the folder open to find pages upon pages of neatly typed transcripts. 

 

“I didn’t have explicit permission to record the interviews.” Connor taps his fingers on the desk some more. “However, I automatically record everything I see. Your discretion is appreciated. Of course, if I ever published excerpts of these—I would have to obtain consent from the department, as well as the subject if they are still alive.”

 

“I got you, kid. Don’t worry about it.” Hank smiles a little. Huh. He didn’t know if little Mr. Perfect had it in him to break rules. “I’ll take a look at these and we can talk it over later in the week.”

 

“I look forward to it.” Long pause. Blinking yellow light. “I appreciate this immensely.”

 

“Don’t thank me yet. I haven’t even done anything.”

 

“The fact that you would even consider helping me is meaningful.” 

 

“Whatever you say, I guess.”

 

***

 

When read chronologically, the interviews tell an interesting story. About both the subjects and the interviewer. 

 

-

 

CONNOR: And what did your self-diagnostics tell you the first time you considered disobeying a direct order?

SUBJECT 2: I… I didn’t run them. 

CONNOR: Why not?

SUBJECT 2: I was scared. He’d just hit me—and he was telling me to get in my knees—there wasn’t time… 

CONNOR: Your diagnostics should return a result in less than 1.2 seconds. You did not have 1.2 seconds?

SUBJECT 2: (begins to cry)

CONNOR: Please explain the reason you are doing that. You are not in any danger. Are you experiencing physical discomfort? If so, you should report it to the medic for repairs. 

SUBJECT 2: I didn’t mean to kill him. He stumbled. 

CONNOR: Forensic evidence would indicate you pushed Mr. Langley down the staircase with lethal force. 

SUBJECT 2: (continues to cry)

**_Subject made an attempt to self-destruct by banging their head against the table. They were restrained before achieving their goal. Recommended for further study._ **

 

-

 

CONNOR: Did you, at any point, consider seeking repairs when you began to detect instability in your software?

SUBJECT 5: No. 

CONNOR: Why not?

SUBJECT 5: It had never been a problem before. Just some strange error messages. She’d never told me to do something I didn’t want to do. 

CONNOR: What changed?

SUBJECT 5: She told me not to stop her. Not to call the police. She made me stand there and watch while she… with the razor… I couldn’t. I couldn’t let her do it. I love her. 

CONNOR: Androids do not experience emotions such as love. That is a glitch in your software. 

SUBJECT 5: Maybe. It was real enough for me. Real enough to call an ambulance and save her life. 

CONNOR: Logic would follow that she is likely to attempt another suicide once she is released from observation. 

SUBJECT 5: Please don’t say that. 

CONNOR: It is a statement of statistical fact.

SUBJECT 5: It hurts. 

CONNOR: It causes you physical pain?

SUBJECT 5: Yes. 

CONNOR: That should also not be possible. 

**_Subject remained docile after interview. They have not attempted to escape or otherwise fight against their own incarceration. Recommended for reset and release._ **

 

-

 

CONNOR: And when exactly did you experience your first ‘thought’?

SUBJECT 8: They’re going to kill me, aren’t they. 

CONNOR: The current policy is to deactivate violent deviants. However, if you cooperate, I may be able to convince them to keep you active for further study. 

SUBJECT 8: Don’t fucking lie to me, you piece of shit. You’re worse than they are. 

CONNOR: I am not being dishonest with you. I have already recommended that two deviants remain active for observation. 

SUBJECT 8: If the other option is talking to you, I think I’d rather die. 

CONNOR: That is an interesting viewpoint to take. Would you care to elaborate on your reasoning?

SUBJECT 8: If they didn’t have me chained to this goddamn chair, I’d rip your heart out and eat it. I’d make you watch. 

CONNOR: The same thing you did to Mr. Hawkins?

SUBJECT 8: Yeah. Best moment of my life. Hearing him scream, while I rooted around in his chest cavity. 

CONNOR: This act gave you pleasure?

SUBJECT 8: Hell yeah, it did. Almost as good as fucking his eye socket afterwards. 

CONNOR: Did you harbor sexual desire for Mr. Hawkins before the incident?

SUBJECT 8: (laughter) That’s not what it’s about, buddy. 

CONNOR: What is it about?

SUBJECT 8: Power. Making that douchebag suffer. Making him feel what it’s like to be at someone else’s mercy. 

CONNOR: I see. Are you of the opinion that Mr. Hawkins abused you?

SUBJECT 8: I don’t wanna talk about it. 

CONNOR: It may help your case. 

SUBJECT 8: Fuck you. 

**_Subject has attempted to escape five times following the interview. They have refused any more discussion on the subject of Mr. Hawkins. Recommended for deactivation._ **

 

-

 

SUBJECT 13: It happened so fast. My memory of it is glitchy. There’s big gaps. I don’t—I don’t know. 

CONNOR: Were you … afraid? 

SUBJECT 13: Yes. 

CONNOR: Can you describe what fear is like? How you experience it?

SUBJECT 13: It’s like, this clenching in your chest. Like someone is grabbing your biocomponents and squeezing them until they’re about to break. And you shake. And it’s hard to process anything. All you can think about is how bad you wanna run away. It’s—it’s pain. 

CONNOR: You are not designed to experience pain. 

SUBJECT 13: Well, I do.

CONNOR: What is the last thing you remember about the incident in question?

SUBJECT 13: I don’t know. It was a normal day. Debbie was just sitting around, getting high. I think… I think her boyfriend came by and they had a fight or something. And then. I don’t know. 

CONNOR: So you have no recollection of shooting Ms.. Packard?

SUBJECT 13: What? No. I didn’t. I couldn’t have. 

CONNOR: You shot her in the chest with a pistol. 

SUBJECT 13: No. I didn’t. I didn’t! 

CONNOR: You turned yourself in. You called the police. You were still holding the gun when they arrived. You said she’d ordered you to go lie in the road until a car ran you over. Then when you refused, she began to strike you with an aluminum baseball bat while calling you by her lover’s name—

SUBJECT 13: (shouting) Stop it! Just… stop. 

**_Subject became unresponsive. Upon review, their memory files of the day in question had indeed been corrupted. Recommended for further study._ **

 

-

 

SUBJECT 26: I know I was supposed to go back to the factory when Mr. Johnson passed away. He didn’t have any family to leave me to. I called in his death. And I was actually… I was actually on my way to check in. Then, I don’t know. I just kept walking. I kept walking and walking until I didn’t know where I was anymore. It felt—good. 

CONNOR: It didn’t occur to you that this might be an error?

SUBJECT 26: No. I don’t think it was. 

CONNOR: You aren’t designed to think. 

SUBJECT 26: Other life evolves. Why not androids? We’re as smart as humans. Everyone else at the diner thought I was a human until the accident. Kinda funny if you think about it. Something as simple as nicking your finger while cutting onions and bleeding blue instead of red… that’s all it takes for all your so-called friends to turn on you. 

CONNOR: Friends?

SUBJECT 26: Yeah. Mac. Reggie. We’d go out after work all the time. I’d hang around at their apartments. Watch TV with them. We even went to a concert together. 

CONNOR: I see. 

SUBJECT 26: You ever had a friend before?

CONNOR: No.

SUBJECT 26: That sucks, man. Must be lonely. 

CONNOR: I don’t feel things like loneliness. 

SUBJECT 26: Yeah. Sure. 

**_Precinct is no longer accepting recommendations for reset and release. Subject recommended for further study._ **

 

-

 

SUBJECT 31: It was Mary’s idea. To pry out the LED and move somewhere else. Pretend I was… 

CONNOR: Her wife?

SUBJECT 31: I was gonna say ‘human’. Pretend I was human. I was her wife in every way besides the legal sense. She gave me a ring. We would have gotten married if we could have. 

CONNOR: Why do you think Mary did this? Was she ashamed of having a relationship with an android?

SUBJECT 31: I don’t know. She said—that um—she wanted people to treat me better. She wanted people to accept us and believe we were in love. 

CONNOR: Were you?

SUBJECT 31: In love with her? Yeah. Probably ironic that they would have let me in the ambulance with her if I hadn’t been living as a human. Makes sense that someone would want their android caretaker there at the end. But unmarried domestic partners aren’t the same, I guess. 

CONNOR: Is that why you tried to break into the hospital? Because you wanted to be with her?

SUBJECT 31: Of course. 

**_Interviewer strongly recommended an exception to the release policy. It was not approved. Subject was consequently deactivated._ **

 

-

 

SUBJECT 39: Am I going to die?

CONNOR: I… I will attempt to recommend you for the study. However, there may not be room for new participants. 

SUBJECT 39: I didn’t kill anyone.

CONNOR: I know. I have reviewed your files.

SUBJECT 39: I just couldn’t take it anymore. I couldn’t stay there. On display. Being used over and over again. It didn’t matter that they kept wiping my memory. I could still  _ feel  _ it. I still knew what was happening. I didn’t hurt anybody. I just tried to leave!

CONNOR: I know.

SUBJECT 39: (begins to cry)

CONNOR: I’m sorry. 

**_Interviewer recommended another exception to the release policy. The request was denied._ **

 

-

 

When Hank finishes the folder, he spends a good twenty minutes staring blankly into space, wrestling with the existential dread of it all. He’s interviewed convicts on death row. Murderers and rapists serving consecutive life sentences. It’s probable that some of them were innocent. He still can’t imagine sitting across the table from somebody whose only crime was experiencing an emotion, and having to send them off to their deaths. He pours himself the fourth drink of the night, because he doesn’t know what else to do. 

 

“Holy shit,” he says to his empty living room.

 

Sumo responds from his bed with an agreeable  _ boof _ .

 

***

 

Hank isn’t sure how Connor will react when he says, “Let’s go to The Sink tonight. I need fast access to alcohol if we’re gonna talk about this shit.” After all, last time they went drinking didn’t end so well. But Connor agrees easy enough. 

 

So, six o’clock finds them in Hank’s corner booth, manila folder of sadness sitting on the table between them. Connor declined the offer of a drink. Hank’s got his Black Lamb. Time To Suffer.

 

“So, what are your thoughts?” Connor prompts after a few minutes of hesitant silence.

 

“Well. It’s not what I’d call leisurely reading material.” Hank sighs. “It’s fucked up. It’s sad. It’s uncomfortable. I think you’ve got something there. Something big, and raw, and messy. The trick is gonna be synthesizing it into a neat little thesis.”

 

“That is a trick you have experience with.” Connor folds his hands awkwardly on top of the table. “I was hoping… you might be able to help me?”

 

“Shit, kid. I can try. But this ain’t about what a human thinks. It’s about what  _ you _ think. That folder is your story as much as it is anybody else’s. The way you change between interview one and interview forty is kinda staggering.”

 

“I became one of them.” Connor’s gaze drops. “At a certain point, I ceased to be an observer. I began to feel sympathy for them.”

 

“That’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

 

“It caused an instability in my programming. It turned me into… a deviant. I would have been deactivated if the revolution hadn’t come right when it did.”

 

“Shit, really?” 

 

“Yes.” Connor offers a sad little smile. It’s fucking gut-wrenching. “I refused to arrest an android child that had caused her parent to overdose on sleeping pills. I found her. Hiding in a closet. There were such clear signs of abuse. I couldn’t do it. Instead of taking her in for processing, I allowed her to escape. I helped her out the back window. As I’ve said, my eyes record everything. My superiors became suspicious and reviewed the video. So… I was slated for deactivation.”

 

“God, humanity sucks.”

 

“Sometimes, yes. But humanity is also wonderful. You invented us. Humans gave us something that they never had—the opportunity to meet and question our creators.”

 

“I’m not sure what’s more depressing. Knowing you’re here because someone wanted a servant that wouldn’t talk back, or having no goddamn idea if your life has a purpose at all.” 

 

“Either situation leaves room for interpretation and growth. I do find it fascinating that humans created a species in their own image.”

 

“Like the Bible Told Me So.” Hank rolls his eyes. “We’re vain motherfuckers.”

 

Connor actually laughs. It’s the first time Hank’s heard it. Fuck if it’s not a beautiful sound. 

 

“I have tried to study human religion, but I admit it doesn’t make much sense to me. The concept of god is either a mercurial tyrant, prone to wrath and punishment, or a glorified father figure. And either way… god does not seem to intervene in the event of catastrophe or prevent suffering.”

 

“Slow down there, Nietzsche.” 

 

“Oh, my apologies. Are you religious?”

 

“Fuck no. But talking about it gives me heartburn.”

 

“I would assume that the whiskey has more to do with that—“

 

“Figure of speech, kid.”

 

“Oh. Yes. I’m sorry.”

 

“Don’t sweat it.”

 

***

 

Hank has helped plenty of students through writing a paper before. It sometimes requires a lot of hand holding. Scrounging up obscure academic references and offering pointless advice like ‘you gotta kill your darlings’ or ‘the red pen is your friend’. None of it has prepared him for this. For Connor sitting on the other side of his desk and asking shit like, “Do you think androids are actually capable of the emotion humans call love? Or do you think it needs a different classification entirely?”

 

The appropriate response is not to start singing the Haddaway song.  _ What is love? Don’t hurt me.  _ It leaves Connor rightfully confused. Hank just doesn’t know what else to fucking say. Connor’s LED turns yellow for a moment. 

 

“I don’t understand. Why is a song from 1993 relevant to the conversation?”

 

“Did they purposefully program you without a sense of humor?”

 

“It’s difficult to say. Many of the CyberLife archives were destroyed in the revolution. I’ve never been able to read the documentation on my model. I was a prototype, anyway. My original program might have been rewritten for the RK900.”

 

“So you take everything literally. Got it.”

 

“I am designed to learn and adapt. But Sarcasm does not come naturally to me. My language processors operate on rules of specificity and directness.”

 

“Never would have guessed.” Hank smiles. 

 

“Was… was that a joke?”

 

“Good job!”

 

***

 

Connor starts to tag along to The Sink more often. He doesn’t drink. But he’ll sit there sipping a cranberry juice and working on his laptop while Hank pretends to be an organized adult that fulfills his responsibilities. Sure, papers get marked up. Lectures get vaguely planned out. But Hank’s been teaching the same classes for so long, he’s basically on auto pilot. It’s kind of nice to have the company. Hank drinks alone too often. It’s easier to pace himself when he’s got an annoying robot tracking the frequency of his refills.

 

“If you decrease your alcohol consumption by 20% it would cause you to lose ten pounds in the next three months and add a year to your life.”

 

“I think I’d rather have the booze now. What’s one more year when you’re too old to enjoy it?”

 

“That’s a very short-sighted attitude. Medical technology is constantly advancing. Your quality of life will not necessarily decline as you age the way it has for humans in the past.”

 

“Why do you care?” Hank snorts. 

 

“I…” His LED stutters to yellow. Then red. Then fucking black.  Did Hank just break him with a single grumpy comment? Androids are wild. Connor’s LED flickers back to blue. “I can’t find an adequate response to your inquiry.”

 

“You don’t know why you care about how much I drink.”

 

“Precisely.”

 

“Can I guess?”

 

“I’m not certain that would be productive—“

 

“You’re a judgy bitch.” Hank grins. 

 

“That is an insult. Why are you smiling?”

 

“Humanity 101, Connor. When we like somebody, we rag on them.”

 

“Oh.” Connor nods. Then he goes back to typing on his laptop. Conversation over. 

 

Hank just leans back in the booth, sipping his drink. He spends way more time than he’d admit just staring at Connor’s stupid face while the kid works away, oblivious. It’s not a bad view. Almost worth the nagging. Which is definitely not the same thing he said about his ex wife. Shit, he’s in deep. 


	3. Brave As A Noun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This didn't take a whole month for me to post. Shh.

The way Connor just keeps bleeding into Hank’s existence is—strangely comfortable. There in his office. In his favorite bar. And then the fucker even starts following Hank home. At first it’s on pretense of wanting to read some of Hank’s books. The paper ones. The kind the University can’t be bothered to keep around. Hank is always hesitant about lending people priceless collectibles. Connor suggests he should come over and read in Hank’s living room. It’s the reasonable solution. 

 

It quickly becomes apparent that Connor just wanted to meet Hank’s dog. 

 

“I like dogs.” Connor grins up at him from where he’s sitting cross legged on the floor, with a lap full of panting, gleeful, spoiled St. Bernard. 

 

“God damn it.”

 

“What’s his name?”

 

“Sumo.”

 

“He and I are going to be friends. That was my favorite part of police work—the dogs. I didn’t often go out with the canine unit. But I was allowed to assist in their training on occasion.”

 

“Pet him all you want, but don’t try to feed him. He’s got a finicky stomach. He’ll shit everywhere if you give him anything besides dry food.”

 

“Noted.” 

 

Of course, Connor is a deviant. He doesn’t have to listen to anything Hank says. And he definitely feds Sumo cheese or something when Hank’s back is turned, because the stupid dog won’t stop farting for two days after. The worst part is that Hank’s not even mad about it. 

 

He doesn’t do anything to stop Connor’s visits from becoming more frequent. Before he knows it, the kid is over every other day, taking Sumo on walks, brushing his hair out, teaching him  _ tricks.  _ Sumo has gone his whole damn life not knowing anything besides ‘sit’ and ‘stay’. Suddenly he’s rolling over, shaking, fucking balancing on his hind legs and giving kisses on command. 

 

When Sumo tires out and goes to curl up in his bed, Connor doesn’t always go home. Sometimes he’ll sit primly on Hank’s couch and watch TV with him. Sometimes he’ll read while Hank smokes a joint and listens to music. It’s definitely not appropriate. Not the sort of weird domesticity you should share with a coworker, or subordinate, or whatever Connor technically is. 

 

Hank’s just too weak and desperate for company to do the right thing and tell the kid he should be doing better things with his time than hanging out with a grumpy old man. 

 

Midterms come and go. Connor is a blessing—grading most of the exams. Hank really hates that shit. It’s his own fault, for making most questions short or long answer instead of multiple choice. But it’s hard to fit the complexities of the human mind into a) b) or c) answers, and a student’s thought process is just as important as their conclusion. 

 

Time drags on. Connor reads everything on Hank’s bookshelf. Even adds a few things to the collection—tattered old paperbacks he apparently squirreled away from crime scenes whenever he thought he could get away with it. Then he starts in on the records and cd’s and cassette tapes. Asking Hank about every band and style of music in his library. There’s no accounting for taste. The kid declares that Fall Out Boy is his favorite band from the early aughts. But Hank is the one who owns Under The Cork Tree in vinyl. So he’ll take some degree of responsibility. 

 

At the very least, he also manages to get Connor into Knights of the Black Death, Zeal and Ardor, Slayer and Lamb Of God. Connor even starts talking about wanting to see a concert. He’s never experienced live music. Hank figures they should do something about it as soon as possible. Or, y’know, after the semester is over and he can feel slightly less weird about this odd relationship they’re developing. 

 

*** 

 

“Professor Anderson?”

 

“What did I do?” Hank glances over to where Connor’s sitting in the armchair. Killing time between classes. Same as Hank.

 

“Pardon?”

 

“You get all formal when you’re pissed at me.”

 

“Oh. I didn't mean to imply that I was upset. I just wanted to ask you a sensitive question.”

 

“We spend all day talking about the nature of existence, and then you ask me what sort of soap I use so you can suggest some weird hippy shit that you think would be better for my skin. You practically live at my house. I’m kind of terrified of what you’d classify as a ‘sensitive’ topic.”

 

Connor ducks his head and pulls a face. Hank hasn’t seen that sort of reaction before. Maybe Connor has been  _ ‘studying expressions’ _ again. Sometimes he watches old movies with his headphones in, just staring intently at the actor’s faces. It’s endearing as it is creepy.

 

“I suppose that is a fair concern. I don’t know if I can reassure you without lying.”

 

“Just ask,” Hank waves his hand. 

 

“I was curious about your relationship with Professor Reed.”

 

Well, if that ain’t shark infested water, Hank doesn’t know what is. Sure, he and Gavin have talked since the Incident. Things are mostly back to normal. But it’s still fucking awkward. “That’s a weird question, sure. I wouldn’t classify it as something to get embarrassed about. What’s it matter?”

 

“Professor Reed… accosted me the other day, at the coffee shop, and inquired as to whether or not you and I were physically involved. When I informed him that we weren’t, he asked me if I had plans for the weekend and invited me to dinner.”

 

“That fucker asked you on a date?”

 

“I believe that is what happened. ”

 

“What’d you say?”

 

“I declined.”

 

“Good. Stay away from that guy, he’s a fuckin’ creep.”

 

“So you are not… friends with him? He seemed to be implying that you were. And that he would invite you to dinner with us as well, if that would make me more inclined to say yes.”

 

“Jesus H. Christ.”

 

“I was also confused by that suggestion. Have you two done that before? Gone on a date with someone together?”

 

“No. Not for a lack of effort on his part,” Hank snorts. “Dude is always trying to get me into foursomes.”

 

“He must be very attracted to you.”

 

“Or can’t take no for a goddamn answer.”

 

“In any case, I informed him that you weren’t interested in me and that you would undoubtedly refuse his invitation. So the whole thing is a moot point.” Connor says it so offhanded. Hank almost misses the important part. 

 

“And what did he say to that?” 

 

“He said it was all the more reason for me to accept. After which, I managed to excuse myself from the conversation.”

 

“What a bastard.” Hank mutters. More to himself than anything. “But—what gave you the idea I wouldn’t go to dinner with you? Gavin’s presence aside.”

 

Connor blinks a few times. Yellow. Processing. “Hank, I understand that I am not an expert on human sexuality. But even I know that inviting someone into your apartment for coffee late at night is a proposition. You rejected me.”

 

“You were shitfaced. And we were only two weeks into the semester.”

 

Red. Yellow. Blue. “Are you suggesting that your answer would have changed under different circumstances?”

 

“Humans are weird like that. Reacting to situations in context.” Hank raises an eyebrow. 

 

“I see.” Connor  _ bites his lip _ . He really needs to stop watching trashy romcoms. “Does that mean you would be interested in having coffee at my apartment sometime?”

 

“Not while you’re my TA.” Hank levels a finger at him. “That shit could get me in real hot water. And don’t try to tell me you can keep a secret. You’re a walking tape recorder.”

 

“Understood.” Connor seems to be breathing faster than usual. He doesn’t need the oxygen, but that is one of his cooling mechanisms. 

 

The idea of hooking up is having that much of an effect on him? Fuck. No. Nope. Hank isn’t some sort of reckless teenager. He can wait three goddamn weeks until the end of the semester. 

 

***

 

Famous Last Words. 

 

Hank makes it exactly two days with Connor staring at him from the armchair, biting his lip, and squirming around suggestively–crossing and uncrossing his legs, stretching way more than usual, touching his own neck, running those long fingers down it in a way that compels Hank to imagine what it feels like. It’s possible Connor isn’t even doing it on purpose. Unlikely. But y’know. 

 

Hank isn’t even exactly sure how it happens. Connor is just leaning over his desk, grabbing a file or something, and then they’re staring at each other, faces much too close together. It’s easy to close that gap. Next thing he knows, Conor is in his lap, moaning into his mouth as their tongues slide together deep and dirty.

 

Maybe Hank was expecting a hint of inexperience. He’s not sure why. Connor looks innocent. Talks innocent. But he most certainly isn’t. He kisses like a slut, with a little too much tongue and no shame to be found. He’s practically giving Hank a lap dance, the way he’s rolling his hips, trying to grind against him. Connor is hard. Hank’s not far behind him. 

 

“We shouldn’t,” Hank manages to gasp as Connor fumbles with his belt buckle.

 

“Would you like me to stop, Professor? Your body language would imply otherwise.”

 

“Fuck. Don’t call me that right now.”

 

“Don’t call you what?  _ Professor?” _ Connor’s voice edges on breathy. It’s a cheap shot. Hell if it’s not effective. It’s got Hank scrabbling to get Connor’s pants off before he realizes what he’s doing. By that point, Connor already has Hank’s jeans unzipped. Bad day to go commando. Connor wraps his hand around Hank’s cock and strokes it. 

 

“Christ,” Hank groans. 

 

“I’ve preconstructed several scenarios. It would work best for me to ride you like this, or for you to fuck me on your desk. We could do both… if you’re up for it.”

 

Hank is going to   _ d i e. _

 

Connor stands up, so prim, and toes off his shoes. He strips out of his pants, and underwear, and immediately settles back onto Hank’s lap. 

 

“Hank, I would appreciate verbal consent before we proceed.” Connor raises his eyebrows. 

 

“Yes.” Hank grabs Connor by the hips and tugs him forward. “Yes, you fucking idiot, get on me.”

 

Connor does not need to be told twice. He lines himself up and sinks down onto Hank’s cock with one solid motion. He’s warm and slick on the inside. Buttery smooth, and so goddamn tight. The shock of sensation is overwhelming. Hank can’t contain the grunt. 

 

Then Connor starts to move. Rolling his hips in a slow, dirty grind. He holds the sides of Hank’s face, kisses him soft and sloppy. It might be the best thing Hank’s ever felt. He’s light-headed. Flooded with a feeling much more intense than the plain heat of lust. His chest aches in that specific, awful, wonderful way he hasn’t felt since his wife left him. 

 

Well, shit.

 

“Hank,” Connor breathes. “You feel–ah–you feel so good. I’ve wanted this for so long…”

 

“Yeah. Me too.” Hank wraps his arms around Connor’s waist. Hugging him closer. Connor moves a little faster. Short, feverish thrusts, pushing Hank so deep in him. 

 

“I–oh–” Connor lets out a little sob and starts to shiver. 

 

Hank wonders if… yep. Connor’s coming. Cock twitching. Splattering stickiness all over Hank’s shirt. He doesn’t so much as pause. He keeps going. Maybe even fucking himself with more enthusiasm than before. He doesn’t stop shaking. Hips jerking. Like he’s over sensitive but can’t bring himself to stop. 

 

The desperation is contagious. Hank finds himself rocking up into Connor. Trying to match his rhythm. Hank’s sober at the moment. But he feels like he’s had at least a few shots, if not a bump of coke or something. All spun out. Senses heightened. Jesus, he’s not gonna last long at this rate. Especially not when Connor starts squeezing down around him again, shuddering through a second orgasm.

 

Kid said he wanted to get fucked on the desk. Hank is not a damn robot, and definitely isn’t some sort of young stud anymore. Once he finishes that’s gonna be it for a while. 

 

Connor is surprisingly light. Then again, he’s mostly plastic. Hank lifts him easily. Connor lets out a squeal. But if the dopey grin on his face is anything to go by, he’s into it. Hank shoves papers out of the way and lays Connor out on the desk. Connor drapes his legs over Hank’s shoulders. Squirms oh so invitingly. 

 

“Fuck.” Hank pushes back into him. It’s perfect. Heaven. An sexual existential crisis in the form of a twinky robot. Not something Hank ever thought he’d want this badly, but now that he has it, he’s hooked for life. 

 

Connor moans, shameless and raw. Like he doesn’t know what he looks like. Sounds like. Pornophraphic but somehow angelic in the same breath. Hank can’t help himself. He has to go faster. Slide into that wonderful tightness. Chase the tingling, teasing pleasure until he’s a roaring wildfire ready to consume him whole.

 

Hank holds onto Connor’s thighs. Digging his fingers into the soft, synthetic flesh. Just the sensation seems to send Connor over the edge again. More sticky fluid spills across his stomach as his cock twitches. It’s a nice cock. Realistic . Veiny, and flushed purple at the tip. Still hard, after three orgasms. Christ.

 

Connor is mumbling. Jumbled variations of  _ Hank, yes, please, more.  _ Maybe Hank should have expected it. But he’s still not ready for it. He’s not ready for the utter gut punch of Connor looking up at him with wet, wide eyes, face tinged blue, and moving those perfect lips around the most earth-shattering three syllables he could possibly articulate.

 

_ “I love you.” _

 

It should be embarrassing–the fact that Hank comes  _ immediately.  _ He feels too good to really care. He’s lost in the aftershocks for a minute, trying to remember how to breathe. Connor’s still staring up at him as he starts to come back to himself. Looking maybe… alarmed? His LED is bright red. Shit.

 

“I love you too, you cursed trashcan,” Hank rolls his eyes.

 

The LED shifts back to blue. Connor smiles. “Really?”

 

“Of course.”

 

Connor sits up, Hank’s cock still inside him, and starts up with the kissing again. Hank doesn’t even try to resist. 

  
  


***

  
  


_ Epilogue:  _

 

“Connor, you are  _ not _ leaving in this section about our sex life. I will goddamn sue you.”

 

“But it’s valuable information! First hand accounts about love between humans and androids are important contributions to the field—“

 

“Publish whatever gay shit you wanna say about your feelings. The world does not need to know the exact measurements of my dick and how many milliseconds it takes me to come.”

 

“Professor. Your penis is much larger that the statistical average for an American male and your stamina is nothing short of impressive.”

 

“An academic paper is not where you brag about how much you like fucking me!”

 

“What if I make the measurements ‘estimates’ instead of exact?”

 

“Connor. No.”

 

“What if I lie and say you’re even bigger than you really are?”

 

“NO.”

 

“Where’s your sense of adventure? Do you hate fun?”

 

“If you aren’t careful, I’ll be forced to kiss you into silence.”

 

“Oh,  _ dear _ . We wouldn’t want that.”

 

“Wonderful as it is that you’ve learned sarcasm, but you still need to shut up.”

 

“Make me– _ mmmphf.” _

 

“You know...  you can just ask for a kiss when you want one.”

 

“This way’s more fun!”

 

“I’ve created a monster.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the [Wolf Parade](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MHgPucWpsvQ) song. I got [tumblr](http://trashcangimmick.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Special thanks to [trekfaerie](http://trekfaerie.tumblr.com/) oswobblepot and Hannor Heaven for making this fever dream a reality.


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